


Set in Stone

by meditationsinemergencies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Philosophy, crystal balls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29275749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meditationsinemergencies/pseuds/meditationsinemergencies
Summary: Severus and Sybill discuss each other's philosophical beliefs and the usefulness of crystal balls.
Relationships: Severus Snape/Sybill Trelawney
Comments: 21
Kudos: 17
Collections: Love Fest 2021





	Set in Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Frumpologist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/gifts).



> Prompt: Severus Snape/Sybil Trelawny / Crystal Ball
> 
> This was written for #LF2021 #TeamVenus
> 
> Many thanks to [Charlie9646](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlie9646/profile) for the quick alpha/betaing!

It was funny, in a way, how different they were. Their living quarters, classrooms, and offices were just as different as they themselves were: His in the bowels of the dungeons—dark, cool, and foreboding, and hers in the highest tower—bright, warm, and serene. 

Lying in her bed, the morning sun warming his skin, he glanced over at her asleep. Her hair spread out across her pillow. She looked very different when she slept, free from all her eccentricities, her youthfulness was more apparent in her sleep, and while he was not an overly affectionate man, he felt the urge to run his fingers along the curve of her nose, the shape of her jaw. He suppressed this feeling; he hadn’t quite gotten used to being with her. Rolling towards her, the sun now against his bare shoulder blades, he shut his eyes again, hoping sleep would once again wash over him, so he could bask in the luxurious laziness of the morning; instead, he began to think of when this all began several weeks prior.

Once he had told her this: "I don't believe in your brand of magic. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in destiny. There is no meaning. No grand plan. There is no Truth."

She had rolled her eyes, something she often did when he spoke and muttered, "Nothing will come from nothing, then." 

He leaned towards her a bit, over his desk, over neat stacks of graded papers, "What was that, Trelawney?"

Clearing her throat, she folded her hands in her lap, straightening her posture, and leaned forward just as he did. This, he realized, later on, was something he liked about her. She refused to back down to him; she would always meet him right where he stood. 

"Nothing will come from nothing. If you…" she paused and furrowed her brow, slowing her words, as if explaining something to a child, "If you believe there is no meaning, then, even if there is meaning, you won't be able to see it. The issue, Severus, is that by opening your eyes, you become vulnerable. Most of us, we falter in the darkness, we have to become accustomed to it. You, however, seem to wallow in it."

"I do _not_ wallow. It's realism. What was it that Kierkegaard had said?" He glanced down at his own hands, folded, similar to hers, on his desk. “He said, ‘the most painful state of being is remembering the future, particularly one you'll never have.'"

She scoffed, "I suppose it's a good thing you're obviously a nihilist and not an existentialist. No need to worry about Kierkegaard."

"I'm not a nihilist,” he said with disdain.

"Mmmmmmm. My crystal ball says otherwise," she said, mocking his defence of himself. 

He leaned back in his chair, "Your crystal ball can shove it." 

Not to be thrown off she inquired, "What then?"

"A Marxist. I loathe the bourgeoisie. Buncha bastards.”

With this, she laughed, a sincere laugh. He had caught her off-guard with his dry humour. Her arms came to his desk and she let her forehead rest against the wood as she rode out of her laugh. He wasn't sure how to take her reaction, but he found that it made him feel good—making her laugh.

She rested her chin on her arm and looked up at him, her blue eyes looking over her glasses, “Best not let you-know-who know of your thoughts."

Somehow, this derailed their conversation, and now he wasn't even sure how it had started. He simply liked what had just passed between them. 

Her chin still pressed to her arm, still resting on his desk, strands of her hair falling on the wood, she said, "I did see _something_ in my crystal ball though."

"The one that's been shoved somewhere unpleasant?"

Again she rolled her eyes, but was so quick to respond he choked on the laugh that bubbled up. "I don't know if it would be _that_ unpleasant, some of my crystal balls are a nice size for _that_ sort of evening." 

His choking laughter sent her into hysterics, and he noted she had to wipe tears from her eyes. 

Once the humour settled, he inquired, "What did you see?"

"So you _do_ believe?" 

"I'm not sure I always have a choice," his voice was lower and quieter than he'd intended. 

She raised up some, letting her hands slide smoothly over his desk, almost touching his fingers. "A different outcome." 

"Than what?"

"You dying."

"I don't get out of the war alive. Dumbledore—"

"Doesn't know everything. He likes to play the role of God, but he isn't. He's still just a man."

"What changes are made to prevent my obviously inevitable death." 

She sighed with a shrug, "I don't know."

"Why tell me this is you don't know what I need to do—" His tone was harsh and cutting, he couldn't help it. 

"It doesn't work that way!" she snapped. "It's not clear. It's not a guaranteed destination, it's a possible one."

"This is what I mean, there is no—"

His eyes lit up with frustration as she interrupted him again. 

"I believe the first step is to get you to allow the possibility."

"For what exactly?" he asked, huffing a bit, giving her a look of curiosity.

Sybill raised a hand to her forehead, running a single finger down the bridge of her nose, letting out a slow breath of frustration. "For your own life." 

He let out a short laugh, "And how do I do that?"

"You do something you want to do. Not anyone else. Not any other master."

Somehow they'd gotten closer, he glanced at her, leaning on his desk, her body closer to his, her voice a low whisper. This close, he could pick up on all of her—the scent of sage and lemon and gardenias. This close, he could see the swell of her chest beneath her beaded shaw. This close, he could, if he chose to, kiss her. He _wanted_ to kiss her.

"Tell me something you'd like to do, Severus." 

Filled with discontent and pain he sneered, "Read my mind, seer." 

"You're impossible. And, you're the Legilimens, arse." Her tone met his, thick with pain and anger. She had not had a happy life either, this he knew. 

As she spoke she'd drawn closer to him, and she searched his face. It dawned on him that she did know what he wanted. She knew he wanted to kiss her; she was waiting on him to act on it. 

"What. Do. You. Want?" She asked again, her tone rather clipped. 

"To kiss you, for fucks sake."

"Then do it."

So he did. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. Her mouth was full and luscious and tasted of a sweet wine, which made me feel drunk with delight, understanding for just a moment why he may want to survive the end of the war.


End file.
